Sherlock-Style Hiatus

Hello.

After the riveting post about making Brioche from scratch, I practically disappeared from the blogosphere here at Two Beans Or Not Two Beans.

I just wanted to let you all know that I am not dead.

I am not dead and I will make an entrance sporting a fake drawn-on mustache and mimicking a cheesy French accent.

#FrenchBeanLives

To be honest, life has been rather unstable for me since the year began. I won't bore you with all of the details, but I will explain the few key points.

After much deliberation caused by several months of unemployment, I, with the help and advice of close friends and family, decided to apply for a Masters program in France. This meant needing to amass a deluge of paperwork, photocopies and translated legal documents as per French university requirements.

That's when things started to go awry: my laptop started malfunctioning in which it refused to open any of my files or let me use Microsoft programs, including Paint and Word. Moreover, the wi-fi connection went down in my building and the then current landlord was unable to do anything about it. Seeing as how the university applications (not to mention posting blogs) relied heavily on the use of Internet, I found myself scrambling all over Le Mans to leech off the wi-fi in local cafés, dragging the nearly-moribund laptop.

This meant that blogging took a backseat to my real life priorities.

Despite all odds, I was indeed accepted to my choice university. It was such a wave of relief to have gotten my acceptance letter in the mail back in June. However, this meant that I had to move once again...for the fourth time in six years.

I said good-bye to Le Mans and, after completing the visa and student paperwork, welcomed Angers into my life.

The famous Angevin castle 

Being accepted by l'Université d'Angers means that a certain aspect of my life has come full circle.

Back in 2008, while relishing the profound interest I have for the French language, I had contemplated in using my Alma Mater's study abroad program to do a summer semester of intensive French lessons in Angers. Except my university canceled the study abroad program for that very year. Dejected, I lamented not having been able to do my university coursework in France and in a city as lovely as Angers.

Now, several years on, I find myself in the odd situation of starting my Masters program there.

I'm absolutely petrified at the prospect of studying in France, yet for the first time in several months, I am hopeful that things are going to turn out just fine.

At least, things will turn out fine provided that I stay on top of the paperwork and photocopies...

Barb the French Bean

Adventures in Brioche-Makin' (with recipe)

In the hectic side project that is dealing with my life, I have temporarily forgotten to update my little corner of the Internet.

Today, with my apologies, I offer you all a glimpse of the activity that I have been working at for the past month or so: brioche baking.

The urge to make my own brioche started from mere curiosity. I wanted to embark on the journey of making this traditional French bread...and balked at the idea that the entire process would take around fourteen hours.

However, most of the time in question involved waiting for the dough to rise.

Making a brioche (without a machine, mind you) can at times be frustrating, especially when the result you envisioned is far from the reality.

I offer, as an example, photographic evidence of what I entitle Brioche #1.

I won't sugarcoat my actions: Brioche #1 was a failure from the very beginning. I had used too much liquid which gave the dough a very fluid consistency, even after having dumped extra flour on it.

According to some tips that I had read, the brioche dough needed to proof for approximately ten hours in the refrigerator. Since my fridge's capacity to chill items proves highly effective, I worried that the temperature would slow down the yeast. Despite my better knowledge, I covered the bowl with a damp towel and set it in the fridge.

Ten hours later, the dough had hardened and the stiff towel formed a statue making an interesting cloth interpretation of a small table.

After waiting four extra hours for the dough to de-frost, it became runny once again, albeit in double of its original volume.

When I finally deemed the dough ready for shaping (after fourteen hours), I greased a pan with a knob of unsalted butter and divided the dough. As I found the braided technique too daunting for the first try, I thought that I would instead make five pull-apart briochins. I covered the pan with some aluminum foil and nestled it into the mini counter-top oven that has the bad habit of burning everything.

I started out with this:

If you look closely, the dough's appearance is not at all smooth...

Three hours later: more rising and covered in an egg wash

...And ended up with this.

I only *wish* that I could have had a photo of the look of disappointment on my face when I saw this brioche come out of the oven.

C'est la vie.

However, this failure did not deter me from trying again. I made Brioches #2 (success), #3 (nice form, but the dough was too hard), #4 (pretty good), and finally #5 (success).

I am glad to say that with Brioche #5's achievement, I feel confident enough to post a lesson on how to try to make your own brioche at home. 

A fair warning: I have the horrible tendency to eyeball the ingredients. I also learned how to make the brioche using grams and Celsius; sorry about that, fellow Imperial-unit users. 

Brioche- no machine required

Ingredients

200 grams of wheat flour
2 eggs
75 to 85-ish grams of softened salted butter
30 mL-ish of warm milk
2 teaspoons of cassonade (brown/turbinado sugar)
1 sachet/5 grams of brioche yeast (regular dry yeast works as well, but the taste will change)
Some salt to taste (but not too much since the butter already contains salt)

Egg wash + Pan
1 egg yolk
A splash of milk
Some extra butter to grease the pan

Utensils
Large bowl
Wooden spoon
Fork
Damp towel
Pan
Basting brush
A firm grasp of sanity
Killer flexor and extensor muscles
Time

Steps 
1. Divide the butter into little squares. I do this first to allow for the butter to soften.

2. In a bowl, mix the dry ingredients.

3. Add the warm milk and stir with a fork. The milk shouldn't be too hot; otherwise, it might kill the yeast.

4. Add eggs and mix with a wooden spoon.

The mixture will look very sticky at this point. If it looks/feels TOO dry, don't be afraid to add just a smidgen of milk.

5. Incorporate the butter into the dough in three parts. Use a fork to crush the butter.

6. Try to mix dough with a wooden spoon.

7. Give up and use hands. Thus commences the battle with the sticky dough to make it do what you want.

8. After a while, the dough will start form stringy strands but still remain horribly sticky. Keep battling.

9. Get a stiff pain in your lower arm. Shake arm for a few seconds before you resume the battle to mix the enemy.

10. Eventually, you'll notice that the strands will look more like a homogeneous mass as they start to cling to each other to form a ball. The dough will start sticking less and less to the surface you are working on (and your hands).

11. Knead dough and form it into a ball that has a slight even sheen from the glistening mixture of butter and wheat.

Kinda like this (this picture of Brioche #2 will have to serve as a substitute as I hadn't thought of taking a picture of Brioche #5 during this step)

12. Cover the bowl with a damp (not dripping) towel and place it near a heat source/in a room with no drafts.

13. Allow for 7 to 10 hours for the dough to proof. Yes. Really.

14. After the 7 to 10 hours have passed, dump the risen dough onto a surface and flatten it.

15. Divide the flattened dough into three segments

16. Roll each segment into a long tube.

 17. Align the three tubes to braid them.

18. Braid as if it were soft, stretchy hair.

 19. Transfer the braided dough to the buttered pan.

That's what I get for having a small pan that fits into the mini counter-top oven...

 20. Cover the pan with a damp towel and let the bread rise for three more hours.

Yes. REALLY.

Be patient.

21. Once it has risen, cover it with the egg wash using a basting brush.

22. Bake at 200 degrees Celsius for 40 minutes. 

(For those of you using a mini counter-top oven like me, cover the bread with some aluminum foil and uncover during the last ten minutes to allow the bread to brown.)

23. Allow the bread to cool off for two hours before nomming.

24. Nom.


Barb the French Bean

Good-bye, Neigh-bors (An Abrupt Alteration)

My personal life has gone through a significant change within the past week: I am no longer living in Sablé-sur-Sarthe.

I have said good-bye to this:

The Neigh-bors had a kid

And openly greeted the Plantagenêt Cité in Le Mans on Friday July 4th. The decision to move was coordinated on Wednesday July 2nd. Le Mans may only be 40 kilometers away from Sablé, but it is worlds apart.

The Saint Julien Cathedral is Le Mans' shining architectural glory

Le Mans, home of the 24 Hours of Le Mans

After two years of being surrounded by cornfields and horses, I had forgotten how noisy bustling cities can be. While I do find myself at times missing the peace and quiet of the countryside, the adjustment to having an efficient, reliable public transportation system with frequent buses and trams and to seeing people my own age makes the transition much smoother.

Plus, seeing this store whenever I walk home never fails to coax a smile across my lips.

Barb the French Bean

The Day A Drunk Dutchman Grinded on Me

(Yes, I know that the past tense of "to grind" should be "ground," but I'm talking about a sexualized dance move, not mince meat, and in the former's context, "ground" or even "grounded" sounds odd to describe the latter.)

As a long-running-but-totally-serious joke here on Two Beans or Not Two Beans, those in the know are aware that I am on the Internet known as the appointed Minister of Transport for Holland. My fellow blogging pal extraordinaire from Invading Holland, King Stu, has since decreed himself as the King of Holland and thus felt the need to offer me the position of Minister of Transport.

Nota Bene: It should be mentioned that I use "Holland" here as a synonym for the Netherlands and am not solely referring the two North and South provinces, folks.

Back in April, the Dutch were going to experience a special day. A very special day, indeed. King's Day!

It being the first King's Day in since...forever...I wanted to look my Minister of Transport best. I put on a layer of red glitter on my eyebrows, painted my eyelids in white and blue, proudly sported my "I See Dutch People" t-shirt and wrapped an orange scarf (every French person wears a scarf; it's against the law not to) around my neck.

The "I See Dutch People" t-shirt is available here. 

I was ready to celebrate King Stu's first Koningsdag.

However, after I took the train to Amsterdam Centraal and prepared myself for a day of rambling about the city, (as the public transports would not run in the city for pedestrian safety), I noticed that there had been a mix up. The King in question wasn't Stu if not some guy named Willem-Alexander!

Even the M&M's were in on it! What more proof do you need? 

I huffed and, in need of a drink, headed down Prins Henrikkadestraat to try to find the Brouwerij 'T IJ bar.

On my way, I saw stalls of vendors selling cheap beer

Doors decorated for the occasion

Party goers all clad in orange

People who clearly didn't speak Dutch

"No bikes."

"Ik spreek geen nederlands, bro."

And the single most pimpin' boat I have ever seen.

'Tis most pimpin', indeed.

Sail on, good sir. 

But I soon realized after a 45 minute walk that it was probably too far to get to the bar on foot, and I still had a full day ahead of me.

My next goal was to take a relaxing stroll around Vondelpark to see the free markets. Everywhere I went, I was surrounded by the color orange, in all shades and styles. I saw children performing in the streets for money, the most clever one being a sibling team in which one banged discordant notes on a keyboard while the other younger sibling, dressed head to toe in a stifling monkey costume, danced under the hot sun. I felt simultaneously amused and sorry for the kids.

Some children, however, displayed great musical talent.

So much that it made me wonder how worthless my life as an artist actually is.

Pushing through the vast orange cowboy hat-wearing crowds,

Dam Square became a fairground

Spot the Dutch person wearing an orange cowboy hat

And occasionally catching a glimpse of Willem-Alexander,

(Sort of)

I kept envisioning Vondelpark in my head and how I would be able to take a break from the masses swarming around the city.

Once I got there, I soon realized that I wasn't the only one who had had the same idea.

Walking around the gardens, I spotted a single orange rose in bloom.

Tulips around the Vondel statue

This was the first time that I had ever seen Forget-me-nots in real life.

After a few hours, I got hungry and wanted to munch on that special treat that I could only get in the Netherlands: bitterballen. The last time I had some was back on January first. Four months is a long time to be deprived of bitterballen.

I walked out of the park. I saw more inebriated people sailing boats groaning from over-capacity,

As well as not one...

...But TWO imperial lions!

"Y'all can't handle my regalia."

I knew exactly where I wanted to go to eat my bitterballen, but the problem was that the entrance to street where the brown café was located was inconveniently near Leidseplein...right at the very corner where the flashy Bulldog Coffee Shop was bound to have an immobile mass of tourists buzzing about it and streets littered with broken glass bottles and piles of rubbish.

I wasn't wrong.

Fighting my desire to punch, elbow, bite, and claw people out of my way, I snaked through the static crowd and, after two minutes that seemed to last an eternity, reached the street.

Thankfully, the brown café in question was an oasis of tranquility from the chaotic atmosphere. I offered myself a moment's respite and nursed a Belgian beer with a half dozen of piping hot bitterballen.

In my bubble of delicious treats, I felt that all was right with the world, at least for an hour. I then set myself the goal of trying to get to the Anne Frank House down Prisengracht. In retrospect, I realize now that it was a dumb move on my part as it was bound to be impossible to get into it on King's Day.

I weaved and swerved down the long street, passing little groups of drunk Dutchies dancing, beers and cigarettes a constant presence in their hands. Despite the rowdiness of the atmosphere, it genuinely made me happy to see them having the time of their lives. I'm a people watcher, after all.

It seemed that all would be going to plan for me to get to the Anne Frank House when I bumped into one of those drunk Dutchman.

"Oh! Sorry!"

He staggered, looked down at me, blinked a couple of times, smiled and placed a free hand on my shoulder, thereby stopping me in my tracks. He then slurred something in Dutch, to which I nervously said "Ik spreek geen nederlands." In a heartbeat, he effortlessly switched to English.

Damn it! How did they know this?

"Yes, I am."

"Ahh! Where are you from?"

"Miami."

"Whoaaaaaa, Mi-a-mi!!!"

How unfortunate for me that Miami carries with it the image of being a party city when I am the complete opposite of a party girl.

That isn't to say that I don't like a good party, but being absolutely plastered while having loud music pound into your eardrums and enough flashing lights to cause epileptic seizures isn't my idea of "fun." I'd say there are two types of people in Miami: those who enjoy the party scene with its nightclubs, and those who want to get out of the city to see something else of the world.

(Guess which one I am.)

Upon hearing that I hailed from the most well-known city in South Florida, the Dutchman cheered loudly and proceeded to give me an odd Dutch greeting of pivoting his gyrating crotch towards my rear.

To further understand how odd this move must have looked to the random spectator, it is important to remember that at 5'4"/163 cm, I am indeed quite a short person in the Netherlands, and the Dutchman in question easily surpassed the Dutch height average of 6'1"/183,5 cm.

In order for his lower abdomen to have reached my rear, he essentially had to bend his knees to a level in which  crouching clearly looked strenuous and painful to him. If we had been dog breeds, it would have looked like a Great Dane were trying to hump a really stout, short-legged Chihuahua. I stood frozen on the spot, too confused to even react to what he was doing.

Let's get one thing straight: the fact that I am from Miami does NOT automatically mean that I want to be grinded on, all right?

After he realized that his grinding was in no way turning me on, he stopped his backward and forward motion, stumbled a few steps and asked if I wanted to join him and his friends to party.

"Maybe...," I diplomatically responded.

"'Maybe?' 'Maybe' is not a good answer!"

"Well, that depends. Where are you guys planning to go party?"

He spread his long arms in the air, clutching a sloshing beer in one hand, and said "the party is here, there, everywhere! It's all over the place!" I think he was referring to the entire city centre. My gut said to get out of there, but then my adventurous side said "why the heck not?" His liquid courage was infectious and I decided to tag along with his group, which consisted of another guy and one couple snogging each other.

As the group and I travelled down Prisengracht, our nucleus of party revelers increased by three other people: three Dutch ladies who never once said a word to me. One of the girls began to chat up the Grinding Don Juan and the other two began to discuss something to each other. I could tell from their body language, from the way their darting eyes looked at me up and down to the giggling that they were talking about me. All of this happened in Dutch, therefore I had no idea what they were saying about me. I did catch the word "wallflower" at one point.

After a few minutes, the Dutch nucleus made a tight circle which, in their language, made me feel excluded. I didn't even know how to assert myself in their conversations by speaking in English. How odd it was in that moment, amid literally thousands of people, to have felt quite lonely.

As I began to regret my decision of having stuck around the group, "our" nucleus increased by another couple. They approached me and began to ask me questions.

What's your name? "Barbara."

Ah, Barbara. "What are yours?" She said her name was Annette. As for the man:

"Ah, no, you wouldn't be able to pronounce it," he stated, shaking his head. I retorted that I was always up for a challenge. "It's Joost."  I repeated it perfectly and his jaw hung open. "Okay, you said it correctly."

Did I know what King's Day was? "Yes, it's King Willem-Alexander's birthday. Prior to that, it was Queen's Day to celebrate Queen Beatrix, although, technically, April 30th was Queen Juliana's birthday."

Joost's attention diverted to the two giggling girls. Did I know the two giggling girls from the group? Were they my friends? "No, I don't know them at all. I've only just met them, actually."

"Ah, well, they are saying really mean things about you in Dutch. Not nice at all. I thought you should know that."

So I had figured, but it was nice to at least have my suspicions confirmed. If anything, their behavior was a clear reflection on their poor character. Rather than getting to know me as a person, they had preferred to pass judgment whilst talking about me behind my back in a language I neither understand nor speak.

I wasn't going to let those two girls ruin my day. In those occasions, it's better to ignore the petty things and let them slide, like water off a duck's back.

Also: not that I'm spiteful, but I did make a mental note to have their bicycles' wheels be clamped and their OV-Chipkaarts revoked as soon as possible.

That'll teach 'em to mess with the Minister of Transport.

I diverted from my revenge fantasy and went back to my budding conversation with the couple.

Was I here with anyone else? "No, I came here by myself."

What? Why would you be doing here, in Amsterdam, by yourself? "Well, why not? I'm a pretty independent person."

What did I think of King's Day, their biggest holiday? I quite liked it, I said.

Really? They didn't have the impression that I was wholly enjoying myself. I insisted that I was, in my own way. (Perhaps I just wasn't overjoyed over having felt cast to the side by the others, but, oh well.)

The man said that I looked a bit "blue." I asked him to explain what he meant by "blue," because to me, it is a synonym for "sad" or "depressed."

He struggled to find the right words for the context and mentioned that it looked like I was there, enjoying the moment, but still hesitant to be present, as if I was keeping my distance.

I think he meant I was being "reserved," which fits quite well with my nature in surroundings that I don't know. However, if someone proves themselves to be friendly, I open up easily, which was certainly the case with the engaging couple.

"This isn't my first time in the Netherlands, either. It's my second time coming here."

"Ah. By the Netherlands, do you mean Amsterdam?"

"Well, yes, I have visited Amsterdam, obviously, but I have been to a couple of other places."

"Where?"

"Rotterdam and Heerenveen."

They stared at me. I might has well had just declared myself as an extraterrestrial visitor from another galaxy and sought to be taken to their leader.

"You went to Heerenveen? I'm originally from Friesland!" Joost said. "What were you doing in Heerenveen?"

"I went to see some friends there."

"Ah! That makes more sense. Nobody goes to Heerenveen for the sight-seeing."

"Well, I did do some sight-seeing there. I even the saw the windmill. I also know the city is famous for speed skating."

At which point their jaws dropped in incredulous joy. Joost, in serendipitous disbelief, said that I was the first American he had ever met who knew about the speed skating. Then he proclaimed to be a speed skater himself.

"Are you really?!" I squealed, thinking about the likes of Sven Kramer, Jan Blokhuijsen, Jorrit Bergsma and Koen Verweij.

"Yes, of course! I am Dutch! We are all speed skaters!" I bit back my words to state that I thought he was talking about professional skating.

"Do you like skating?" Annette asked.

"Well, I do like to watch the execution and the skill involved in the sport, but, regrettably, I don't know how to skate."

"Oh. Well, you can always learn how to ice skate."

I shook my head. "No, I mean, I don't know how to skate."

"If you know how to inline skate, on wheels, it's really easy!"

I chuckled and reiterated more explicitly. "I don't know how to skate. At all. Neither on blades nor on wheels. I never learned how..."

"Ah. Well, that'll be your next goal in the Netherlands! To ice skate!" she said cheerfully.

Just when I was beginning to enjoy the conversation and was getting ready to ask them some questions myself, they announced that they had to go. Before I could lament their departure, they left me with a parting gift.

"You look very oranje today, but hold on. You are missing something!"

Joost reached into his backpack and pulled out a pair of orange sunglasses. "I want you to have these!"

I declined at first but he insisted that I have them. "I want you to have these, because that is how we are!"

I was very touched by their kind gesture and thanked them for it. Annette then bequeathed the sunglasses on my head, as if they were a tiara. It was then that I truly felt welcomed by the uniting spirit of King's Day and I will never forget their kind gesture.

I walked around the city proudly wearing my oranje sunglasses tiara and watched the fleet of boats pass by on the canal.

I got distracted by some poffertjes and never made it to the Anne Frank House. I wasn't too worried, though, because King's Day had only been the first day of what would be my week in the Netherlands...

Barb the French Bean